


eschewal

by artreactor



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blood, Canon Divergence, Dubious Consent, Injury, M/M, Trans Character, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence, brief victim blaming, derealisation, implied autistic jake, implied not cis jake, mental break, possible emetophobia, unreality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-04-08 00:51:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4284384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artreactor/pseuds/artreactor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>you hope he's a benevolent god</p>
            </blockquote>





	eschewal

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the warnings as this may be disturbing at times. This discounts anything that happened after the claymation update.

When Roxy banishes your puppet to the void, you can't bring yourself to watch her. As weird as it sounds, you'd really loved that thing. You used to prop up your duvet with a fishing rod, shine a torch in his face and talk animatedly about whatever was on your mind like you imagined sleepovers in the decade known to the 21st century as the nineties. It makes you shudder and feel slightly foolish now but you still don't want to face it. It feels like your childhood is being torn away. 

When you break your gaze away from that scene, you feel another small part of your childhood break. 

Jake's standing about a metre away, staring at his hands. There's a faint glow around them and you imagine them covered with sheep wool mittens or cotton balls but no descriptor can quite match how pure hope looks and you're not sure what to make of having no words. 

You didn't make a man out of Jake English, not how you planned to anyway. If boys don't cry, men certainly don't and you haven't seen Jake without tear stained cheeks since the previous night's candy rush. Physically, you would judge Brobot to have been a failure. Jake still fights actively like a feral child, all teeth and nails and frustration. He still relies on his guns and sheer luck. 

You don't think making a man out of him matters much anymore. You'd have to be some sort of ingrate to act as though him saving your life wasn't worth a tuppence just because he was near hysterical while he was doing it. 

Now is not the time for you to consider that you may have been wrong for trying however. You push the inkling, the questioning of the importance of masculinity, out of your head. It can wait for another day. 

You take a step forward, wincing, and Jake's head starts up. His eyes are wide and the frame of his glasses is so broken that it tilts to one side. There's a scratch across one of the lenses and you think his nose might be broken; the blood thickly coats where he had tried to grow a mustache only four months prior before you made him shave it off. His hands are wringing then and his gaze drops.

You're at a lost for what to do then. In your entire life, you have never saw someone in more desperate need of a hug. If you were certain that you should be the one to initiate it you would already be hugging him. Something stops you; maybe you don't want to seem clingy again, maybe the pain is making you doubt whether bro hugs are a good idea, or maybe you simply don't want to pretend like nothing ever happened between you. 

Jane does it for you. 

When Jake doesn't automatically drop his head into her shoulder, she pushes it down, rubbing the back of his head. You see his fingers twitch as if he's resisting the urge to pull away from her and it's taking all the will in his body to hold himself there. You see her lips move but your vision is too bleary to fully comprehend what she's telling him but it makes him stop struggling. He doesn't relax in her grasp though; he just stiffens. 

Roxy finishes up and she is less inconspicuous. 

"Proud of you," she chimes, tossing her arm around his shoulder casually. You half expect Jake to bow under the weight of her arm but he doesn't. "Didn't know you had it in you, Jakey."

"I did," you interject automatically and the three of them look at you as if they forgot you were there. You don't actually recall if you did think Jake was able to do that. You were under no illusions as to the sheer potential that his powers had but at the end of the day it was just potential. You tell yourself that you always saw the potential in Jake. You just tried to exploit it in the wrong way, that's all. You tell yourself a lot of things to help you sleep.

It takes a few more moments for you to bridge the gap between you all, your hand holding your ribcage as if it's going to fall out if you don't keep your hand tightly pressed to it. Your other arm winds around Jake's neck, hand loosely positioned with your finger balancing against his pulse point. His heart rate quickens. 

"Thanks," you say and it's harder than it looks. It looks hard enough as it is. "Knew you could do it."

He doesn't answer and when you sneak a look his eyes are vacant. You can practically see the cogs whirring in his head. You don't ask what he's thinking about or what he's trying to process because you're not sure you entirely care. Your head is starting to feel like someone shoved it up with cotton wool and you come to the conclusion that you must, ironically, be concussed. You drop your head into Jake's hair and breathe. 

And for a moment you forget that you just lost your comfort blanket again. You forget that your brother and others are trapped in a house in the void and you have no idea how to help them. You forget that you ever vindicated Jake in your own head and never told him, you forget why you ever resented him for it, you forget you ever did. 

You forget.

 

 

Jane dances around the issue of her feelings and you watch her speak with Calliope and Roxy across the room in hushed whispers as you clutch your side. You become increasingly aware that you're probably suffering from severe internal bleeding but you don't want to pull her away to ask her to heal you. Maybe you deserve to be in pain. 

You don't know where you are. You're not even entirely sure how you got here or what happened. You suspect you may have passed out and no one quite wants to tell you that you missed the entire battle. Your brother walks by and goes to pat you on the back, only to leave his hand hovering above your shoulder instead, not quite touching you. You don't know if it's because of the blood seeping through your shirt, the way you're holding yourself in pain or something else. 

"That was easy," he says and sums up all of your feeling into words. You dumbly nod. The conversation goes nowhere and Dave awkwardly makes his leave. You don't blame him.

Jake is in the middle of the room, staring at the floor. You watch his eyebrows furrow and then unfurrow again. It's odd to see him standing at the centre and it almost puts you off balance; you expected to see him packed tightly into a corner, shrinking in on himself or at the very height of his social peak, talking to someone in a secluded area. You're surprised he's here at all to be honest.

Your gaze follows his to the floor. It's hard to see from how far away you are what exactly he's staring at. After a few minutes of squinting through your bleary vision, you realise there's a long crack on the floor between Jake's feet. It must be interesting because his entire concentration has gone into watching this one crack. 

His head shoots up when Jane finally approaches him and you watch with an ulcer forming on the inside of your cheek as his foot slides to cover the crack. They talk, Jane tries to smile and Jake tries not to cringe away from her touch. Under the surface, you can see Jake's need to cry bubbling over his need to feel reassured by whatever he's being told. 

When his foot moves, the crack is gone. 

 

 

You fall back together with surprising ease. 

A week ago, if someone asked you if you wanted Jake back you'd have deliberated for six hours before coming back with the most vague answer possible. If someone asked you two days ago, you would have told them to fuck off. If someone asked you yesterday, you would have said no, under no circumstances; you're a disaster and Jake needs to be kept away from you. 

You try to apologise and Jake puts his hand to your mouth, muffling you. 

He takes it away just as quickly. "Sorry," he says, wiping his hand in his shirt before shaking it like he regretted doing that, "It's just not necessary."

"What?"

"You apologising," he says, his hands flapping as if to emphasise his point, "It's not necessary. I understand." Sharp nod of the head, you judge it as a certain type of assertion you didn't know he had. "I understand everything."

It takes you a few minutes to process. Your mouth opens and then closes again. That was easy. It was too easy. You take the coward's way out nonetheless. 

"Whatever you say, bromide."

He looks at you curiously and you begin to feel like you're on display or something. It feels like you're a fly crashing against a windowpane and Jake is deciding whether you should be let out, kept or killed. You feel your heart thud painfully against your still bruised ribcage and hope he is a benevolent god. 

"What do you want from me now?" he says in such a simple, straightforward way that it makes you start. You forgot he could do that; be effortless, painless. 

You tell him the necessities. He reads your mind and gives you all your hopes and dreams on a silver platter. You have yet to say sorry, let alone thank you. 

 

 

You try to fix things without talking about it. 

You create a timetable in your head of what times you think are appropriate to talk to Jake. You cross out all the extra moments that would make this time excessive; you want just enough time to keep your need for closeness from bubbling over but just as little so as not to scare Jake off again. You need to make sure you don't suffocate him but at the end of the day he's your boyfriend (paramour, Jake had corrected so many times accompanied by sleeve pulling and shoe scuffing during the game and you always ignored his convoluted reasoning and shimmying around. You presumed he said it because the word 'boyfriend' was too serious for him. He doesn't correct it anymore.) and he has to want to spend time with you at some point. 

Jake's always gone from your bedroom by six in the morning so you occupy yourself in other ways until midday. Then you hunt him down and convince him to eat and try to make conversation across the counter with him while he picks at his food. You alternate days depending on whether you think Jake wants to spend the afternoon with Jade or the evening with John. After nine is always your time and if you're in your room at nine on the dot you don't have to go searching for him. 

You made Jake sleep in your bed starting the first week because you presumed he'd be having nightmares but would be too proud or anxious or whatever Jake is these days to come to you with them. It takes you three nights of restlessly turning in your sleep beside him to realise that Jake doesn't sleep anymore. 

 

 

You wake one night and realise what's wrong. 

Jake is lying on his back with his hands raised, his bottom lip caught under his teeth. You watch as he tugs coloured, slightly translucent squares in front of him, fitting them together like jigsaw puzzles. There's an aura about him, turning his hands into balls of light and hazing down his body, framing his face. His legs make shadows through the illuminated bedsheets. There is a small space, not big enough for you to put your hand through, separating the bed and where he is hovering ever so slightly above it. 

It's like something out of a horror movie but you can't take your eyes away. It's mesmerising and for some reason you're not scared of teenage boys hovering above your mattress with imaginary glowing squares of light and colour. You're not frightened at all. At one time you thought the sheer power of Jake's abilities would scare anyone but it's not frightening. It's just incredible. 

You gulp and then feel like your insides are stuffed full of cotton wool or toasted marshmallows. Despite yourself, your lips tug upwards helplessly. 

"Are those real?"

Jake yelps and falls back to earth with the strain of bedsprings. He pushes his hands down under the blankets as he looks at you, wide eyed. "I thought you were asleep."

"Well I'm clearly not. Are those real?"

He looks defensive and his whole body stiffens. You don't know why. "Is what real?"

"The." You're at a loss for words for once. "Squares?"

"No."

"Oh."

The silence becomes uneasy and the squares start to disintegrate. You want to reach out and touch them but you restrain yourself. You're not Jake and your hand would simply go straight through them. Jake hesitates for a moment before reaching his arms out to them again, continuing to slot them in and piece them back together. 

"What does real mean anyway?" he asks and your brow furrows. 

"What?"

"What's real?" he repeats, slotting with firmer movements and a quicker pace, "I don't know anymore. There used to be a theory that our universe wasn't real and that it was just a reflection from the minds of greater beings but people still believed in earth anyway. Maybe we're those greater beings and what earth was is just what we remember now. We believe in a concept of time and space but how do you define it? Why is what happened a second ago on a different frame from now? Why is what happened a million years ago on a different frame from what will happen years in the future? I don't have a single iota. But we believe in it. I think that's what really makes things real; believing in them. Nothing can be fake if you truly have faith in it."

The silence grows again. Him piecing squares becomes a lullaby for you.

 

 

"Do you think there's something wrong with Jake?" Jane asks across the counter as she pours cereal in on top of a bowl of milk. For someone who loves food preparation she sure does have quirks. 

"No," you reply, trying not to tug your hands away from Roxy's inspection, "Why?"

"You have old woman hands," Roxy says and you finally tug them away, shooting her a look. "What, it's true."

"Don't you think he's been acting a little, how shall I put this, strangely?" she presses, stirring the bowl with a spoon. When she gets no response she sighs. "Where does he keep going every morning?"

You shrug your shoulders. "I haven't followed him if that's what you're asking." There's silence for another moment. "Not sure why you'd ask me that. I think it's pretty clear that I don't follow him places. I think it's clearer than the sky since the dream bubbles were- where did the dream bubbles go actually? I don't fucking know. I think the real question here is where they're scurrying off to and not where Jake is going every day. We need to send a search party out for those damn clouds. They can't just go all William Wordsworth on us and wander off, you know." You stop when Jane gives you a look. "Digressing. Sorry."

She sighs. "I can't help but be a bit worried, you know." You do know.

"Janey, it's not like him ollying out for no good reason is anything new," Roxy says, raising an eyebrow. Jane purses her lips and you avert your gaze. 

"Perhaps I'm just overthinking things."

"You bein' a worrywart is nothing new either."

"I'm sure Jake is fine," you butt in and you feel awkward when their gazes return to you once again. You clear your throat. "Us bugging him about it will do jack shit, believe me. Besides, I think he's doing better if anything."

Jane watches you speak with a mouthful of cereal. She swallows. "He has been awful considerate lately. Perhaps he's just growing up."

The idea strikes you as strange. You can't imagine Jake as an adult. He's always just been this spectacularly goofy kid who's both one of the smartest people you know and utterly obtuse at once, and you're even starting to doubt the latter part. Perhaps him being oblivious has always been part of this childish game he plays where if he ignores something for long enough it won't be real and he won't have to deal with it. The thought of him growing out of that is like the thought of you growing out of your need to predict people and document their behaviours. It's an alien concept. 

"You're all fretting over zilch," Roxy says, taking your hand again, "Jake looks better than I ever seen him. He's got a glow, you know?"

"Roxy, he's literally glowing. Like, constantly."

"He glows in the dark," you add helpfully. When you look over again Roxy's grinning at you. 

"Of course he does."

"Why do I feel as though you're reading too much into that?"

"What? I'm just saying there should probably be something said about how you two, being alone in a dark room, and him being all hopey and shit is pretty suspish."

"Oh. Well this conversation has ceased to resemble anything of importance so I'm going to move on from it now."

You change the subject. You don't remember to what. 

 

 

Jake still doesn't sleep but sometimes he presses himself to your back in the middle of the night when the colour show has ended and you're almost asleep. His hands send goosebumps up your legs when they make contact with the skin revealed by your shirt after it's ridden up through much tossing and turning. You're still unused to touch but you're still starved for more than you're willing to beg him for. 

He's always silent for a while as if he's trying to make sure you're breathing, his hand ghosting just over where your stomach rises and falls. Then you hear the telltale sound of him sucking his bottom lip between his two top teeth and you can feel his gaze shift. 

Then he always whispers, "Do you like me?"

And you always answer, "I like you," because you don't know quite how to tell him you love him yet or whether that would ruin everything. 

"Sometimes I think I'm imagining it," he might mumble into your neck and it makes your stomach churn and your chest feel tighter than even you've ever felt it before. 

"Believe it, Jake," you'd mumble tiredly and you always swear the room looks a little brighter. 

 

 

It takes resolve to stand in the middle of a pumpkin patch but you do it anyway. You don't like dirt and grime; growing up surrounded by water with not a plant in sight made you nervous about the concept of the outdoors. Your eyes itch and water and Jade laughs at you, a tittering sound not unlike Jake's own. 

"You're not a nature guy," she concludes and you nod sheepishly, "What's up?"

"Is Jake okay?" you ask. You've come to the conclusion that maybe you're not the one who knows the most about him naturally and decided that Jade likes you more than John does. 

She looks confused, her eyebrows furrowed over the round lenses of her oversized glasses. Her ears prick up and there's probably not going to be a time when they don't nearly give you a heart attack. "I guess? He seems fine to me?" she replies. 

You watch her hands twist around the stalk of a pumpkin as she settles the dirt underneath it with a small rounded spade. Her tongue sticks out in concentration and a part of your memory flickers. At face value, she has a lot of his habits and features. She reminds you of how Jake once mulled over the idea of growing his hair and then got a little too upset when you told him you thought the idea was stupid. You regret that sometimes. 

"Are you sure? How does he seem when he's with you?" you press and she stops, putting her shovel down. 

"I don't know? He seems fine," she says. She clicks her tongue against her canines when you look unappeased with that answer. "We don't talk about you, if that's what you're worried about. I'm not really interested. We talk about flora and fauna but to be honest there's only so much I can tell him." Her shoulders fall and her thumb taps on the handle of the spade. "I don't know if he's interested or if he just knows I am."

"He's interested," you answer and she raises an eyebrow. You feel the need to clarify yourself. "He was always disappointed that he didn't get to learn all that stuff from his grandmother. She was a fan too."

Jade hums and picks up the spade again. "Okay," she says and you think the conversation is over before she continues, "I'm sure he's fine though. We're all still settling in."

You nod and turn to leave before she stops you again. "Something is weird though."

"Like what?"

"I don't know," she says, shrugging. "There's a disturbance. I'll let you know when I put my finger on it."

You leave none the wiser.

 

 

You (almost) sleep with Jake English.

You watch some movie with him first. He pulled out a large box of them from behind the communal television set and pushed them towards you. It's some level of chivalry for Jake to allow you to choose the film; it's enough to woo your socks off in the most ironic sense. You don't think either of you actually watch it because you can't remember a single thing that happened and Jake's cheek was smushed precariously against your shoulder in the most awkward fashion the entire time. You come to the conclusion that he has no idea what he's doing and just thinks this is some sort of level of affection you would be into like his chin sticking into your upper arm is swoon worthy. 

It means you go to bed together and somewhere along the journey he takes your hand and you wonder if Jake even got allocated a bedroom because he's never slept in it. Who even allocated the rooms? It seems like a massive plot hole in this arrangement but this is real life and real life shouldn't be defined by things that don't necessarily make sense to you. 

You don't kiss him very often because, as much as he tries to hide it, you can still feel him cringe against your mouth sometimes. You put it down to residual trauma because it's easier to hope that your boyfriend is suffering from tribulations resulting from the hand life dealt him than the fact that he still might not like you. He kisses you this time though, in the doorway, and he doesn't cringe against your mouth but you feel the strain of his shoulders and the purse of his lips as it takes every bone in his body not to just the same. 

You're already on top of him before you think about how this is going to work. You slide your hands under his shirt and contemplate the pros and cons of taking your binder off for this. It's not like he doesn't know.You should have talked about this before jumping in, discussed where it was appropriate for him to touch you and find out the least embarrassing and uncomfortable manner in which to do this. 

You're pulled out of your fretting by the realisation that he doesn't seem to be taking the initiative to touch you anyway. Instead, his shoulders are stiff and his hands are firmly planted on the bed under him. His eyes are fluttering from the ceiling to your hands to the ceiling again before he tries to squeeze them shut just to open them again. When he finally looks at your face, he stares blankly at a spot just below your nose but it's been along time since you thought of Jake's inability to look you in the eye as suspicious. His fingers are pulling thread out of the bedspread and twisting them into knots. 

"Is this okay?" you ask and he nods before you've even finished the question and his eyes are back on the ceiling again. 

Your hands toy with the buttons on his shirt the way his hands toy with the thread that's now wrapped around his fingers. It's not dark but you can still make out the lack of shadow on the bed, giving him away. His skin changes under you and you watch his collarbone flicker as you feel the press of his abdomen under your hand alter. It's weird and you look up at his face for clarification. His eyes are squeezed shut again.

You sigh and go to pull your shirt off over your head, your eyes flicking above as you do it. You stop. 

There's a crack in the ceiling that you know from sleepless nights wasn't there before. It's long and oddly wide, stretching diagonally from one corner to the other, almost cutting the ceiling in half. The crack gapes open but there's nothing inside it. There's no plaster underneath it and it doesn't cut through to the room above. There's no insulation foaming out and there's no foundations crumbling. There is just a crack and everything inside it is darkness and stars, like it's showing you the night sky. Except it's seven in the evening and the sun hasn't even set and there are three rooms above yours and that is not the night sky, far from it. 

Your breath catches in your throat and you're struck with the strange notion that you're going to die for a second. You can't tear your gaze away from it until you hear Jake hitch underneath you. Your head snaps to him and his chest is rising and falling under your hands at a rate that's far too rapid. His eyes are firmly locked with the ceiling and his breath is coming in small wheezes from between his two front teeth. You search him for any signs of understanding and come up empty handed like you always do.

When you go to look at the ceiling again he sits up, one hand barely able to hold him up without shaking the bed while the other covers your eyes. It should be dark but you note with another air of panic that it's far too bright. 

He mumbles something and his voice is tinny and shaky and you can't make out what it says. Your blood is roaring in your ears, your shirt is stuck half way off on your shoulders, Jake is still glowing, there is a fucking crack in your ceiling oh god what the fuck-

You sleep with Jake English (but not quite) and the crack is gone when you wake up. You forget why you were worried.

 

 

Jake is obsessed with making it up to you. 

It's three days before he gets back into his routine of disappearing for a few hours every day instead of being attached to your side constantly. You're not sure if he's trying to prove something to you or whether he is looking for reassurance. You tell him you can get your own water, walk to the fridge yourself, entertain yourself. He gets the message, apologises unnecessarily, scampers off only to come back later again. He calms after about a week but there is still the subtle appeasement there but you're not sure if that's a new development. 

You ask him if he's okay. All he says is, "I've got everything under control."

 

 

You never got around to asking Jane to heal you and these days you're starting to think you should have. Your kidneys still feel bruised and your ribs still ache a bit even though it's been weeks; maybe months, you're starting to lose track. Maybe you broke something. Maybe you still have internal bleeding and eventually you're just going to pop your clogs all because you were too proud to ask for magical medicine. 

You examine your eye in the bathroom mirror after another impossibly long shower. The area around your eye socket is still tender, like you cracked something. At the very least you feel that you should still have bruising there. But there is nothing, not even the dark, sleepless lines you had become accustomed to seeing in the morning. Jake might not sleep but you sure do with him. 

There's a bang on the bathroom door. You forget about it. 

 

 

You think it's chaos theory. 

You're watching something on television, or at least Jane is. She has her feet on your lap and there are small different colour mustaches on her socks. You're too engrossed trying to figure out what colour pattern there is to pay much attention to what is on the screen. It's black and white and from the background noise alone you would be able to tell that Jake hadn't picked it even if you hadn't heard him delegating the task of choosing a film for the evening to Jane. 

The crash makes her jump, her heels banging against your legs which in turn makes you jump. You look across at Roxy because she's next in your line of sight and she's looking out over your shoulder into the kitchen, her brow furrowed. Jane sighs beside you, using one finger to rub her temple. 

Jake breaking something, tripping over himself or generally just making a mess is nothing new; he's an awkward person and hasn't quite got the hang of spacial awareness yet. Him not automatically reacting with a groan or by banging himself on the head with the flat of his hand and chiming 'silly me' is however something new. 

After a few seconds there is still no audible reaction so you twist around to peer over the back of the sofa. Jake's a few feet away from the sink with what appears to be a broken drinking glass lying in a pool of water in front of him. His head is ducked and you can't make out his expression but he appears to be staring at his hands as if he's trying to process what has happened. It hits you after another second that you have absolutely no idea what he's doing. 

Jane turns after a moment or two to assess the situation for herself. She regards the scene with a laboured sigh and you note Jake's shoulders twitch, the only movement he's made so far. "J, the sweeping brush is under the stairs if you're looking for it," she says and she cocks an eyebrow in a fashion that makes you somewhat relieved that she didn't just offer to do it herself. 

Then you wish she had. 

His head shoots up and you lose your ability to swallow at how utterly frightened he looks. His hands are still half clenched, maybe twitching, maybe shaking, and his mouth is pulled into a mien of impromptu anguish. It's a glass, you think helplessly, it's a glass and you've no idea why he's overreacting so badly and why he looks like he's about to cry. 

"I'm sorry," he chokes out before crumbling, dropping down to the floor to gather the glass with his hands.He's doing it quickly but not efficiently, catching shard in the palms of his hands and grasping too many of them into his fist at once so they slip out again, stained. 

"Jake!" Jane says, worry tilting her voice. His shoulders jump but he just reaches out again. 

You feel like you're frozen in place. You don't understand what is happening and the familiar air of unease is clenching your stomach into knots. You don't think you can get up without throwing up. It's a glass, it's just a glass. 

Roxy is the first to get up and she enters the room cautiously like she's trying to pacify a stunned animal. You watch as she surveys the floor for stray pieces before hunkering down in front of Jake. Her hand presses against his forehead, brushing his hair out of his eyes, and her brow furrows immediately. You wonder if he has a fever. 

"Jake, Jakey, look at me," she says but he doesn't. He's back to staring at his hands again but they're clenched full of glass and blood. "It's a glass, okay? You need to calm down."

He's mumbling. You can tell by the rise and fall of his chest and his stuttered breathing but his mouth isn't moving enough for you to read what he's saying. Jane detangles herself from you and pads towards the doorway. Roxy's fingers wrap around Jake's wrists and he jolts back as if she's electrocuted him. 

"What're you saying sorry for?" she asks and you realise he's been apologising this whole time. His hands tense around the glass and you detach yourself from the sofa to come closer into the room to join Jane. She's wringing her hands and looks how you feel. 

You watch Roxy's thumb rub across Jake's wrist and he jolts again, mumbling. "Stop apologising, alright?" she tries, her fingers trying to prise his hands open. He pulls them away from her, leaning back. When his face is unshadowed, you can see how his cheeks are becoming red and blotchy and how his eyes are wide and flickering. He looks cornered. "Look, just drop 'em. We can clean it up and you can have a rest, alright? When's the last time you slept?"

"I'm sorry," he repeats, shaking his head when she hushes him, "I'm sorry."

Your gaze has been permanently fixated on his hands this whole time. They're shaking, trembling, clenched around broken glass and probably bleeding. They're not glowing. 

Your stomach turns and your gaze slowly flickers towards the ceiling.

The crack is so large that there's barely any ceiling left and what is left is crumbling into nothing against the scaffolding. The old feeling returns and you can't feel your arms or your brain or feel anything other than dread wracking every bone in your body because you're petrified. 

"Jake, what are you doing," you ask hoarsely because it's the only thing that can come out. Jane must follow your gaze because the next thing she's shrieking and when you finally drag yourself back to Jake, Roxy's shaking him. 

"Snap out of it!" she says and it reminds you of being ten and asking her if there's nothing out there because they're really nothing out there.

The most piercing sound leaves Jake's mouth. 

You feel like your head is empty and spinning, like it had been stuffed with cotton wool and now it had been yanked out of your ears. You double over, holding your head in your hands and feel your stomach turn again. Your hand goes to feebly grasp at the front of your shirt only to find it stained with blood again. You look down at your god tier pyjamas and the blood slipping from you feels cold. 

The floor has given way and the stage beneath you is still stained with your blood. When you look up, Jane is still clutching her head and she looks like she's going to pull her hair out. You try and step towards her but the pain hits you like a tidal wave and then you're doubled over again. 

Roxy's still shaking Jake and his hands fall open finally. They're cut and stained with blood but the glass is gone. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"Jake, what did you do?" Jane asks and you hear the hysterical tilt in her voice more than you see her expression. Your vision is clouded again and your head has never been so clear but unable to think. 

"I'm sorry. I was trying- I'm sorry. I wanted to. Sorry." He's not making any sense and Roxy reaches for him and you think she's going to slap him before she catches his cheek in her hand. 

"Calm down," she says again and her voice is too calm for the panic in her shoulders. Jane calms down instead of Jake, dropping her head into her hands. You think she's crying. 

Nothing ever happened, you realise dully. There was no fight, there was no resolution, there was no Jade or Dave or Rose or John or at least they were never saved. There was only ever Jake.

You want to punch him. You want to hug him. You want to throw up. 

You stand there instead, crumpled over yourself as your lungs press against your broken ribs. Your mouth tastes of copper and cotton wool and you look up as Jake stumbles to his feet. 

"I thought it was for the best," he says and a noise bubbles up in your throat. You cough blood instead. 

"What did you do?" you get out and his head snaps to you like he forgot you were even there. He shakes as he takes in your drenched shirt and the blood trickling down your chin. "Jake, what did you do?"

"I'm sorry," he chokes again and you can't tell if he's swallowing blood or tears, "I was helping."

Jane makes some strangled noise into her hands. "This isn't happening. This can't be happening."

He's apologising again and stepping backwards. Roxy slowly gets to her feet, her hand running through her hair and clumping it with blood. You can't move any closer. "Jake, that's not helping. You're not helping."

"I'm trying," he manages to get out before hiccuping and dropping his face into his hands. Roxy tries to approach him again, slowly, steadily. 

"You don't have to," she says and he chokes, wheezes, before stepping back again. She stops moving. 

"Yes I do," he says and wipes his eyes before dropping his hands again. Your vision wavers as they tremble. "This is something I can do! I can do this! I put a spanner in it this time but I can do it, I can make it work. It's the one thing I'm good at."

"You don't have to."

"Yes I do!" he repeats and his hands raise again, "Just let me do this for you."

The glow breaks through your hazy vision and your head starts to feel cloudy again like someone is shoving cotton wool through your ears again. You forget that you're in pain as you lunge forward, you forget everything he told you about nihility and reality, you forget everything but the name ripped from your throat-

You forget.

 

 

You wake up as the light trickles through the curtains of your bedroom. The walls are whiter than you remember and the sheets feel starched, as though they've never been slept in. Your eyes crack open wider as your arm swings to the other side of the bed, landing on the mattress without an audible sound. You blearily survey the empty side of your bed with a foggy memory and a deep feeling of unsettlement in your stomach. 

There's a crack in your ceiling, in the very corner. You don't see it.


End file.
